No Way Out
by unforth
Summary: AU. Father Castiel of the Finding God Ministry protects a vagrant who has wandered into his church from the notorious En Fuego gang. The stranger is clearly trouble, but Castiel can't help how is drawn to the man.
1. A Green-Eyed Stranger

Author's note: I was just going through some files on my computer and I found this. I keep forgetting it exists. It's just a stub - I started it as a NaNoWriMo project in 2013. Until last year, I failed NaNo annually in a wide variety of ways, and always thought "maybe it'll go better if I...". 2013's attempt was fanfic and this is all I wrote of it. I think this is technically the first smutty thing I ever wrote? Not that it's particularly smutty. It was going to be, though.

I have a distant glimmer of a vague idea where I was going with it and no idea if I actually will work on it, but, well, it's written, so what the heck?

(I finally beat NaNo for the first time officially in 2014 - I wrote 80,000 words in November, which was a personal best until this past May when I wrote almost 200,000 thanks to "An Assembly Such As This." I unofficially beat NaNo in 2007, when I wrote "The Lost Generation," which I've been posting on here - I wrote about 57,000 words, if I recall, but I wasn't officially signed up. When I realized I'd have done it I was really pissed at myself)

* * *

Unfamiliar faces were common at the Finding God Ministry, and usually Castiel followed a simple procedure when someone new came in - let them be, leave them to their prayers until they rose to leave, and then greet them and see if there was anything he could do to aide them other than supporting their soul. Spiritual guidance was only part of what the Ministry did; the rest was social outreach and support, helping the people of the neighborhood get a roof over their head, a full stomach, treatment for what ailed them, employment training and job placement, a new set of clothes or a haircut. The needs of the poor were numerous, and Castiel had, over the past few years, cultivated ties with organizations throughout San Francisco and the Bay Area to provide for as many of those needs as possible. It only saddened him that he couldn't do more, that he lacked the resources to run a soup kitchen or offer to pay to a lawyer to provide pro bono legal services to the laypeople. So much need, and all that he did, all that he could do, was only a drop in the bucket.

He pushed the maudlin thoughts away. He did his best, and if he eased even one person through a difficult time, helped them see the light at the end of the tunnel, it was worth it.

Tonight's stranger was unusual, his appearance striking. Rather than bowing his head, eyes closed in prayer, reverent, as was normal, his green eyes were wide open and piercing, and there was anger in his expression as he stared down the cross. Castiel had trouble not meeting the gaze of those clear eyes, having to remind himself as he went about his evening duties that staring was not only rude, but in this neighborhood it could be downright dangerous. Dark hair, sharp nose and chin, shrugged into a worn leather jacket, the stranger radiated pent up violence. His shoulders were tense and hunched. He looked like a man who was being hunted, an expression Castiel knew only too well.

Tearing his eyes away from the stranger, he wondered if he should ask the man to leave. Violence came to the church sometimes, that was unavoidable, but if it must happen, if the pews were to be rent by gunshots yet again, Cas would hope that it was in defense of one his regulars, at least, not for a wandering vagrant. _You're being uncharitable_ , he castigated himself. All visitors were equal in the eyes of the Lord. A stranger deserved and needed as much care and solace - maybe even more - than someone who had found a home already at the Ministry.

Steeling himself to meet the stranger face to face - wondering why he was finding it so difficult, a haunting pair of green eyes didn't make this time any different than any other time he spoke to visitors - he started to walk in that direction when the front door slammed open and four tough-looking Latino men strode in. To a man broad shouldered, with cropped hair and tattoos, all wore the flame-decorated bandanas that marked them as members of En Fuego, one of the most dangerous gangs in the city. Castiel glanced back at his green-eyed stranger, curious of his reaction, wondering if this was what had put the itch between his shoulder blades, only to find he had vanished. To all appearances, Castiel was the only person in the church.

"Hola, padre!" The clear leader of the posse was also the shortest, but he had the broadest shoulders and a jagged scar that ran angry red from his earlobe to the corner of his mouth. Castiel had never met him, but recognized him from reputation. His real name was unknown, but around the Barrio he was called El Ejecutor - The Enforcer. Castiel hid his dismay with a smile. Had En Fuego finally decided to force a levy on the Ministry? If so there was no way he could afford to pay it. The Ministry would have to shut down.

"Hola, señor," Cas said in his terribly accented Spanish. He'd picked up a lot of the language since he'd moved here but when he spoke he still sounded like a white boy from the 'burbs. Which, in the interest of fairness, he was.

"We are looking for a gringo who stole from us. We thought, maybe he comes here? You are a gringo, he is a gringo...your kind always sticks together en el Barrio, right?"

Only one white person other than himself had been in the Ministry all day, the green-eyed stranger. "No, I haven't seen anyone all evening," Castiel smiled, allowing the relief that this wasn't a demand for protection money to seep through and obfuscate that he was bald-faced lying, not something he was generally very good at. "Would you care to pray with me, brothers? A prayer for peace?"

They all laughed. "There will be peace," replied el Ejecutor, "once I've cut off his balls." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and then held it out to Castiel, showing a picture of the Ministry's visitor. "This is him. You are sure you haven't seen him?"

"Never in my life," he turned away to hide the recognition he was sure must be on his face. "If I do, I will find your men and let them know."

"That is wise of you. A wise man, padre."

"Yes," Castiel's heart pounded in his ears. He shouldn't lie to these people. They could ruin everything he'd worked to build since he'd come here five years ago, ruin it all without a second thought, without any concern, and probably beat him to within an inch of his life while they were at it. "If you'll excuse me, it's late, and I have to prepare the church to close for the evening."

"Don't you want to look at his face again? You don't want to forget his appearance, do you?"

Castiel schooled his features, turned around, and forced himself to walk over at a measured pace and inspect the cell phone picture carefully. The stranger was dressed the same as he had been today, though his expression was less guarded, a hint of a smile played at the edge of his lips, though whatever had elicited that expression wasn't visible in the shot. The man was shockingly handsome; it had been a long time since Castiel had seen a man who could excite his libido. He thought he'd finally moved past that particular danger.

"If I see him," he repeated, "I will most definitely let you know." He walked by them and over to the door, which was still ajar from their entry. Opening it wide, he gestured and said firmly, "buenas noches."

The looks that the gang shot him were courteous as they exited - no matter what else they might think of him, Castiel was still a man of God and this was still a church, and they at least played lip service to respecting such things - but El Ejecutor gave him a stare that made it clear that he had his doubts and would be back again. Castiel smiled in return, shrugged his shoulders slightly, trying to look apologetic, and then closed the door and locked it as soon as they were outside.

Gasping in a deep breath, he sank to his knees. He hadn't realized how scared, how wound up he was until they left. Now that the confrontation was over, it was like all the strength had left him. Several minutes passed achingly slowly while he remembered how to breath, calmed himself down, slowed his heart rate.

"Thank you," said a gruff, raspy voice, just the way he'd have imagined the stranger would sound. "You didn't have to do that. You...you saved my life."

Castiel forced himself to stand up and turned around. The stranger was standing in the aisle between the pews, shoulders still hunched, expression hard to read, eyes lowered but mouth still set aggressively.

"It was the right thing to do," Castiel replied, confused by the body language signals that the stranger was communicating. Almost like he was angry at Castiel, almost like he didn't want Cas to have lied for him or hidden him. Almost like he had wanted to be caught, had wanted to die. "My name is Castiel."

"That's an unusual name," the stranger scowled.

"Well, it's not the one I was born with, if that's what you're asking, but it's the only one I have left to me now," he approached his visitor, trying to look safe, comforting, friendly. "Those guys will be out for quite some time - En Fuego has men throughout the area. It won't be safe out there tonight. Do you need a place to stay? There's an few cots in the basement. You're not the first indigent to come through, though no one else is staying here at the moment."

"I shouldn't," the man shook his head. "I shouldn't have come in here at all, damn stupid ass thing to do. If you'll unlock the door, Father, I'll get out of your hair." There it was again, that hint that he wished Cas hadn't intervened, that turn of expression almost like he wanted to be caught. Castiel took a step down the aisle towards the exit. The man walked right by him, a faint waft of leather and sweat in his wake, and Cas turned, staring at the determined set of the man's back as he lifted a hand to the dead bolt.

"I don't know what you did or why they are looking for you, but you did it for a reason," this man, with the piercing green eyes and the body language that said he had a mission in life and would walk through any wall that tried to block his way, this man wouldn't have messed with a group like En Fuego for no reason. He wouldn't just give up. "Whatever that reason was, if you go out there and they kill you, you'll never accomplish it."

Castiel's heart started to beat hard again as silence stretched out and the man stood immobile, hand still on the door. After what seemed like a long time but couldn't have been more than moments, the man turned around to face him, an odd half-smile on his lips that didn't touch his eyes at all. Nothing like the picture that El Ejecutor had shown him. "I think I'll take a look at that cot, Father."

"It's this way," Castiel stammered slightly on the words, so relieved that the man had decided to stay, so bored through by that unwavering green-eyed stare. Michael used to look at him just like that, it always took his breath away, left him desperate for a touch, for a laugh, for any chink in the impenetrable armor that protected the vulnerability within from a harsh world. "But there's no need to stand on formality here. Everyone who attends the Ministry just calls me Castiel."

"Alright, Father," answered the man. "You can call me Dean."

Castiel woke to pitch darkness in the tiny room he called home, soaked in sweat and disoriented. He'd been lost in a dream of times gone by, a dream filled with people and places he'd never see again, feelings he'd never have again. How long had it been since he had dreamed of Michael? Years, surely. Awake, no force in hell, earth or heaven could have compelled him to return to the lover who had destroyed him, but though his mind and heart remembered the pain and betrayal, his body only recalled caressing touches and the hot tension of skin brushing against skin.

That was the past. This was the present, and he flicked on the light in his drab office, a desk, a filing cabinet, and a bed barely wide enough for one the entirety of his personal space. The memories faded as he forced them away but the feelings lingered. His erection was as firmly in place at it had been from the moment his eyes had flicked open. No amount of self-denial was going to cure him, he realized resignedly, and forced himself up, stumbling to the bathroom, rubbing himself through his flannel pajama pants.

There was only one bathroom in the entire Ministry, and at the moment it smelled less than appealing. Cas was going to have to clean it again. The fluorescent light buzzed unpleasantly as he tried to ignore his disheveled appearance in the mirror, hair mussed, eyes still puffy with sleep, yesterday's stubble darkening his cheeks. He turned the cold water tap on all the way and splashed the frigid flow over his hair, his face, let it drip down his bare shoulders and torso. Even the smell, even his own tired reflection, even the icy water didn't affect a cure. The tent in his pants remained firmly in place.

He switched on the warm water, finished washing his face, his hands, and then reached into his pants. It wasn't that he was opposed to masturbation, not at all, he found it a healthy pastime and engaged in it happily as a normal part of his life. However, right now the dream still lingered in his mind, Michael's remembered voice still whispered filthy nothings in his ear. He didn't want to be aroused by that. He didn't want to touch himself and remember that other touch. He didn't want to come gasping Michael's name, never again.

If he had to masturbate, he had to think about something, anything else.

A flash of memory came suddenly, piercing green eyes and the delicious smell of well-worn leather. He groaned despite himself and began to run his hand along his shaft, the soft skin covering the hardness, twitching with desire beneath his experienced fingers. Dean, he thought, and his cock surged between his fingers just thinking about him. It was wrong, the man was sleeping ten feet beneath him, blissfully unaware of the ragged breathing his appearance was eliciting, the pre-ejaculate slicking Castiel's hand as he fingered his head and imagined peeling back that leather coat and kissing those full lips, feeling hot breath on his neck, staring into those eyes as they pierced right through him. His eyes slipped shut, his left hand gripped the sink until his knuckles were white, his world narrowed to the hot feeling in his groin, the pressure and movement of his hand along his length, and the tender, imagined ministrations of the stranger. It was so wrong, but it felt so good.

"Uhh...oh," that gruff voice was unmistakable, and Castiel's eyes flew open to find the real thing staring at him, looking him up and down, taking in his dripping black hair and the hand vigorously at work in his pants. "Sorry, dude, it's cool, I'll wait. I just gotta piss."

"No," Castiel gasped, fighting through his mortification and trying to put on a casual expression, as if getting walked in on while jerking off was a perfectly normal event in his life. The scent of leather reached him even though Dean wasn't wearing the jacket, and his erection jumped in his grip by way of reply. Castiel resisted a bubble of hysterical laughter that threatened to overcome him. Dean didn't know what Castiel was thinking. Thank fucking _God_ Dean didn't know what he was thinking. "No, really I'm sorry. I'll get out of here."

"Seriously," Dean answered, averting his eyes, his cheeks flushed. _He can't read my mind!_ "Finish up what you're doing. Even priests get hard up," he emphasized the expression with a lewd gesture, as if Cas could have possibly misinterpreted. "I'll come back." He turned to leave.

"No point," Cas let the laugh out, surprised himself with how cynical it sounded. "This all...kinda killed the mood." The erection was going flaccid, the intense driving need faded as his embarrassment overrode his horniness. Still trying to act like this was all perfectly normal, he washed his hands vigorously in the sink and pardoned himself, heading back to his room. He could feel Dean's eyes on him the whole way down the hallway. His room was, for once, a sanctuary. He went in closed the door, and for the second time in 24 hours, sank weakly to his knees, shaking. Dean was not good for his health.

Life didn't stop just because he was ashamed, though, so soon he arose and started his day. Unsure what to expect from his guest, he set about making breakfast: nothing but eggs and bacon and toast, but at least fresh. If he'd been on the run, Dean probably hadn't had a good meal in a while. Equal parts hoping to avoid another run in with his visitor and looking forward to a chance to interact with him more, Castiel was surprised by how sad he felt at the prospect of eating alone. Before he realized what he was doing, he got up to see where Dean was and let him know that he'd made breakfast for both of them.

The basement was empty, the cot neatly made, the blanket folded at the foot. The bathroom proved equally empty, and the small meditation garden out back, beginning to glow with morning light, was equally vacant. That left only the main hall, and there he found Dean. As Castiel entered the room, Dean rose from a pew and walked to the door.

"I thought you might like a meal," Castiel called across the room to him. "Are you leaving already?"

"Yeah, Father, a guy like me can't stay in one place too long." Every time Dean spoke, it seemed like there were layers of meaning that Castiel couldn't guess at, in this case hints of pain and loneliness and resignation.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Castiel asked.

"No," Dean said shortly. Castiel waited for him to say more, to explain further, but he didn't.

"I'd like to help you."

"You'd like to help me?" Dean's tone was part wonder, part disbelief, and a hint of hope. "You don't know me." By the second line the wonder and hope were gone, all the hard-edged standoffishness back, his voice more gruff and raspy than ever. "I appreciate that you helped me out last night, but I don't owe you shit, you understand?"

"I never said you did." Castiel's heart ached for a man so unused to having aide given freely that he just assumed that he'd be expected to pay something in return. "I'd like to help you, if you'd like my help. If you'd not like my help, that's also your choice, but you'll always be welcome here if you need sanctuary from the storm. These doors will never be closed to you, and I'll never tell them where to find you."

Dean's expression was unreadable, his eyes never leaving the floor. He wouldn't even look Castiel in the face. Slowly, he turned back to the door and unlocked the deadbolt. "Thanks, Father," Dean said inscrutably, and walked out.

Castiel ran after him, stopping at the door. "Next time you see me, you'd better call me Castiel!" he shouted, but he didn't get an answer. Dean didn't so much as glance back.

 _I will never see him again._

* * *

E/N: Earlier today I vowed I wasn't going to work on anything else til I finished some the stuff currently on my plate.

Having reread this, I remembered exactly what was going to happen next (though not really what I had planned beyond that, if I had anything planned...I used to pants projects like this pretty often).

Temptation to write more - knowing it will be full of all the angst - is extremely high.

I have a disease. A ridiculous, ridiculous disease.


	2. Shelter From the Storm

Heya, everyone! So, four people asked me to continue this story...and really, one would have been enough. As of a couple days ago, I've got a full outline which has it coming in at 13 chapters, but I suspect I'll be modifying the outline a lot as I go.

A few warnings about this story, now that I have a basic idea of the plot:

1\. There is *probably* going to be mentions of past non-con (not 100% I'm including it as a plot element, but it seems fairly likely?) - certainly, there will be past (and possibly current) emotional/psychological abuse. There will be no in-story non-con, but there will be mild dub con.

2\. I'm keenly aware of the dangers posed in this plot as regards white privilege and particularly the "White Savior Trope" - my white male characters (Dean, Castiel, Sam) who swoop in, hang out in a primarily minority neighborhood, and are consistently miraculously able to solve all the problems that these people have. I'm going to really work to avoid and/or subvert that trope, but it's likely to happen at least a little. I'm sorry. All I can really say is, I know it's there, and I'm trying to not fall into it, and if I fail...I did my best, will learn from the ways in which I succeeded and those in which I didn't, and will strive to do better next time. Further note that in this chapter, and in future ones, Castiel's inner monologue will have some elements of "I'm here to help these people." Yes, it reflects latent condescension towards the poor and internalized racism. Yes, it's intentional.

3\. My usual research reminder. I'm using a lot of elements in this story that I don't know much about. I write fan fiction for fun, my casual "turn my brain off" writing, and I will NOT be extensively research San Francisco neighborhoods, police corruption, Christianity, gang violence, criminal defense law, or any of the other elements that I'll be using in this story. If I get stuff wrong, I get it wrong. If you know a lot about something I get wrong, I'd LOVE to learn more, cause I always want to learn more, and if you care to take the time to comment and explain - or even just post a link to a resource that'd educate me - I will read, and learn, and integrate what I know to do a better job in the future. And thank you profusely. :)

4\. There will be smut but it's going to have a somewhat slower build than some of my other stories. Not as slow as "The Devil Went Down to Detroit," but slow.

...I think that's it. I'm guessing this story will end up around 75k, based on my outline, but I'm notoriously bad at estimating, so I guess we'll see. :)

* * *

"Tamara, take this letter to DSS," Castiel explained. The distinguished-looking woman, her hair cropped short, skin appearing darker than normal in the dim light of Castiel's office, ignored the proffered document. Her youngest child, strapped in to a flimsy stroller that looked more appropriate for a doll than for a person, absorbed all of Tamara's attention as she began to fuss and cry. The baby was teething, a pink bow around her head, a cute dress over her tiny body. Castiel waited patiently as Tamara, looking utterly exhausted, offered a green plastic key to the infant, who grasped it, gummed it and then screamed louder. Slumping into her chair, face falling, Tamara sighed.

"I'm sorry, Father Castiel," she said. "What was that?"

"Take this to DSS," he said gently, folding the paper and slipping it into an envelope. "As far as I can tell, this should be adequate supporting documentation for your childcare request, given the other proofs you've already submitted."

"Thank you," sincerity suffused her tired features. The child threw the plastic key aside and screeched.

"There's a cot downstairs," he continued. "DSS is closed until Monday. Why don't you get some rest? I can watch the baby for a few hours."

"I couldn't possibly ask you to…"

"Then it's a good thing you didn't ask," said Castiel. She watched him wide-eyed. Leaning down, Castiel picked up the toy and set it on his desk. "What's her name?"

"Alex is a boy," Tamara managed around a huge yawn. "But the only clothing I have are Shani's hand-me-downs, so Alex gets pink. I'm not going to turn him gay, am I?"

"I don't think it works that way," said Castiel dryly. "Though I suppose I couldn't say for sure." He resisted adding that he doubted anyone had ever put him in a pink and white frilly dress, and he was homosexual regardless. She might worry he was contagious. "Go sleep. We'll be fine."

"Thanks," she said, and turned and opened the door. Outside, a bedraggled, dour-faced man in rags stood, hair filthy, eyes wild. Tamara eyed him with distaste, clinging to the wall so that she was as far from the vagabond as she could be.

Alex watched his mother leave and howled.

"Paul, I told you…" Castiel began. He couldn't even hear himself over the infant, there was no way that his visitor would be able to. Surely there was something on his desk that a teething child could safely shove in its mouth. Nothing struck him immediately, though. Stapler, tape, pens, pencils, phone, lamp, coffee mug, legal pad, cluttered inbox…with a sigh, he wiped the plastic key off again and shoved it at the child. Grasping it in small fingers, Alex gummed the edge of the key, tears streaking his copper skin, whimpers of unhappiness escaping from the corners of his mouth. Optimistically, the homeless man stepped into the office. "I'm not a notary. I've never been a notary. I wasn't a notary the first eleven times you asked." He grabbed a piece of scrap paper and scrawled down the address for First People's Bank of San Francisco, memorized after every other time he wrote it out for the troubled homeless man. "First People's Bank is your best bet. They can help you. They're notary will stamp documents for free. They'll be open from 9 to noon tomorrow."

"But…"

"Yes?"

"But you're a _priest_ , Castiel."

"That's not the same as a notary," Castiel repressed a sigh. "Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

"Yes, Father," the dirty man said, huffing a frustrated breath hard enough that the long hairs of his beard stirred. Muttered invectives reached Castiel's ears as Paul turned to leave, his name, "notary," and various descriptions of indecent acts all blurring together into a muddle. The door slammed shut as Paul let it go, the sound so loud that Alex started against the straps holding him into his carriage and promptly began to scream again.

To the accompaniment of the miserable baby's laments, Castiel tackled his never-ending stack of paper work. No one else worked at the Ministry and reliable volunteers proved hard to recruit and harder to retain. Most who offered were not actually suited to the work – such as children seeking community service hours for school looking for any place that would accept them – those, Castiel referred to more appropriate venues. Many others were convicted men and women sentenced to service as part of their conviction or their probation. Castiel was happy to accept them, but they invariably left when their mandated hours were completed. The few who proved both suited to the work and able to do it quickly leveraged the skills they gained to obtain paid employment. That was fantastic, exactly what he'd hope for them, but Castiel had so much to do already that he couldn't perpetually be training new volunteers – it cost him more time to prepare them than he ever saved by having their aid. Thus, all aspects of managing the church were left to Castiel, from managing their finances, fundraising, dealing with donations, networking, gardening, cleaning, working with parishioners, and of course he still had to see to the spiritual health of his flock. Somewhere in the midst of that, he found a few minutes to take care of himself.

Alex murmured random syllables made indistinguishable by the key in his mouth, and Castiel gave the child a gentle smile. It was worth it. It was the most rewarding thing he'd done with his life. It was the only useful thing of any kind he'd done with his life, the only job he'd ever had, not counting the many times his father had forced him to make public appearances before he grew so sickened with the spectacle the man made of piety that Castiel left. There was no illusion of devoutness at the Ministry. Those who believed, believed, those who didn't, didn't, and regardless, Castiel believed, and paid his honor to the Lord by treating all with the same respect, gave each equal priority. Every day, he received thanks. Every day, he learned of some positive outcome for someone he had helped. There were negative outcomes as well. For every Tamara who came to his office, needing help to fill out paperwork and make sure that they had correctly prepared their requests for aid, there was a Paul, determined that only Castiel knew the answer to their intractable problem and indifferent to his inability to be of aid. _You can't help someone who doesn't want to help themselves_.

The thought brought a memory of green eyes and a sharp chin line. His visiting stranger of the week before, Dean, was a perfect example. Despite Castiel's words to Dean, despite Dean's apparent resolution to see through whatever mysterious duty he felt obligated to accomplish, Castiel knew hopelessness when he saw it. The beautiful man had been lost to external help and unable to get out of his trouble on his own. Dean had forgotten how to trust anyone. There was no state sadder, more lonely. Castiel understood that better than most, for he had been there himself, driven their by manipulation, lies, forced isolation, fear and dependency. Then, no one had been able to help Castiel but himself. Similarly, no one could help Dean but Dean. Each day, Castiel was surprised not to hear of a body being found in the Barrio. It was sad, to think the man who had once smiled so openly had become the man who couldn't comprehend why Castiel would shield him. A playful fantasy spun in his thoughts, kissing those firm lips, staring into those expressive eyes, running his hands over that dark tanned skin. Losing himself in modestly sensual thoughts proved an effective means of tuning out Alex's persistent fussing. Fortunately, balancing the church's checkbook was a mindless task, and Castiel worked figures thoughtlessly while he entertained himself with pleasanter pastimes.

Night fell gradually. Though the sun set quickly at the Ministry, where the San Francisco hills blocked much of the western horizon, the diminishment of the sunshine was balanced by the glow of the city, the ambient light of the neighborhood. It was never fully dark. Shadows lingered, windows cast lightened squares into black rooms. At some point, Alex mercifully fell silent. Alarm briefly flared in Castiel's breast, but mere moments established that the child had exhausted himself enough to fall asleep, head lolling, a trail of spittle leaking from his lips to ooze about the top of the toy, negligently gripped against his chest. Reluctant to turn the light on for fear of waking the child, Castiel worked on by the dimness streaming through the small open window that overlooked the Ministry garden. With silence, he could finally concentrate on his most pressing order of business, and he took the legal pad and attempted to write his sermon for the next morning. Setting pencil to pad, he stared blankly, the lines blurring together momentarily, squiggling, straightening.

When had he grown so tired?

As if triggered by the thought, a yawn stretched his jaw, and he stifled it against the back of his hand, teeth digging gently into his knuckle.

There was a knock on the door.

Startled, Castiel's teeth broke skin and he whimpered. Alex made an indefinable squeak and shifted, and Castiel winged a selfish prayer to heaven that the child stay asleep. Rather than call to his visitor, he slowly, carefully pushed his chair back and rose, silently opening the door to be met by the wide-eyed gaze of Nancy, one of his most devoted parishioners.

"Father Castiel," she said, voice soft, almost reverent. One of her hands trailed to the golden cross hanging at her neck, chain tucked under the collar of her button up shirt. She was one of the sweet young women he'd ever met, with smooth, pale skin with a yellowish under hue, long, sleek black hair done in a chaste braid, large brown eyes, and a shy smile. Demure, caring, and devout, she had been one of the finest, smartest, most tireless volunteers who had ever helped at the church. He'd felt very guilty that part of him begrudged her the paid employment she'd eventually obtained, working as a clerk at the local police precinct. He wished he'd had the funds to hire her.

"Good evening, Nancy," he said quietly. With a finger over his lips, he gestured her into the room, turning on his desk lamp. The faint golden glow served to emphasize the dark corners of the small room. Alex squirmed and stretched out a squeaky yawn, smacked his lips and shifted the key so that he could lean his cheek against it. Nancy's eyes widened when she took in the infant, then fell, drooping sadly, her mouth in a tight, thin frown as she watched Castiel sidelong. "Please, have a seat."

Nancy did so, taking the chair facing his desk and sitting with stiff formality as he resumed his own seat, setting the blank pad aside. Waiting patiently, he watched as she struggled visibly with herself, assuming the kind, open expression he'd found most effective when dealing with skittish, nervous people. All the while, concern troubled at his thoughts. Nancy was exactly the kind of person he'd come to this difficult neighborhood to try to help, intelligent, capable, determined, but lacking in the resources to get started down the right path. Further, he considered her a friend. Even with all the help in the world, too many people from the Barrio ended up trapped, unable to escape the toils of poverty, the obligations of family, the desperate straits of living one bad turn from disaster every day. Nancy deserved better. They all deserved better.

"Father," she said at length. "I don't know what to do."

"If you are willing to share your troubles with me, I will do everything in my power to help you," he said.

There was another long pause before she continued. "The Department confiscated a cache of firearms that they discovered when they raided a gang hideout last week." Her voice was low and urgent, expression fixed in a strangely determined worry. "I was asked to inventory the seizure and complete the mandatory reports about the police action. There were 23 weapons. It took me a day to correctly identify them, record the serial numbers, follow up on existing open cases related to the weapons, and complete the documentation. I was _very_ thorough…" She looked up, brown eyes flashing.

"I'm sure you were."

"Today, one of my employers asked me to revise a report that I had filed," Nancy said, voice taut with anger and uncertainty. "She told me there were only 18 weapons, and demanded to know how I could have made such an error. When I protested, she took me to the evidence locker and showed me. There are only 18 guns now. Five are gone, five that either lacked serial numbers or were not associated with any existing crimes. It's impossible, Father. I know I didn't make a mistake. The Detective wrote me up for incompetence and threatened to fire me if I continued to question her account of what took place. The case was her bust. All the logs and evidence books used to say 23 – I'm sure they did! – but now every report agrees that it was 18. Only mine contains the original, correct information." Tears filled her eyes as she wrung her hands in distress. "I need this job."

"You've not done anything wrong," Castiel said reassuringly. Dirty cops! Just what the neighborhood needed, on top of the drug problems, unremitting poverty, and the violence brought by En Fuego. "Do you have any original copies of the reports that have been modified?"

"You believe me?" she said gratefully, years filling her eyes.

"Of course I do, Nancy," he gave her a gentle smile. "You are one of the most honest, upstanding people I've ever known. Did you make copies?" She shook her head. "How would you like to proceed?"

"I need to tell someone!" she said with quavering fierceness. "But who can I tell? She's a police officer. If I go to the police…"

"What would you be trying to accomplish, by telling someone?" he asked leadingly.

"Those guns…they could be anywhere now," she said. "If Detective C…if the Detective did something immoral with them, she's probably done immoral things before. I'd like to stop her…can we stop her?"

"I don't know," said Castiel. "I'm neither a lawyer nor a law enforcement agent. However, I know a lawyer who might be able to help. Would you mind if I call him on your behalf?"

"Would you? That would be so kind of you," she said with a hesitant smile that made him uncomfortable. There had been a time he'd thought she was flirting with him, but it was so subtle he'd never been sure. It had stopped when she'd ceased her daily volunteer activities, and had been the only aspect of having her around that he didn't miss.

"Of course." Castiel opened the drawer of his desk and flipped through the neatly organized pile of business cards he'd arranged in there. There were several lawyers whom he knew who were willing to work on a sliding scale, though most didn't work in criminal law, instead specializing in fields like social security/disability cases. However, there was one he'd met recently at a charity event, a young man starting out with his own firm, a criminal defense lawyer with an emphasis on representing the needy against the mighty. The work would not be free, but Nancy was well-loved in the congregation and with work Castiel was optimistic that he could raise the funds necessary to support legal action. He pulled out the card, remembering clearly the open, friendly smile on the face of the tall man who had given it to him, the long pale brown hair curled about his ears, brushing his shoulders. Taking up his pen and pad, he quickly copied the information. "His name is Sam Winchester. He has an office in Oakland. I'm copying his address, phone number and e-mail down for you."

"But you'll call him?"

"I'll call him," Castiel nodded. "In just a moment." She smiled with relief. Tearing the page from his book, Castiel passed her the information and lifted the receiver on his phone. No cell phone, he couldn't afford one, just an old fashioned touchtone clunker. He didn't have a computer, either. There wasn't even internet access at the Ministry, though he hoped to add it soon. There were some local youth whose parents couldn't afford after school who hung out in the basement or in the garden on school days, and he knew they'd appreciate wireless. So many plans, so much need, so few resources – the story of the last five years of his life. It was late to be calling a place of business – it must be nearly eight – and it was a Saturday, but Castiel had the strong suspicion that Mr. Winchester was the kind of man who always worked.

Holding the receiver to his ear, Castiel dialed and listened to the rings – one, two, three – before his belief in Mr. Winchester's workaholic nature was vindicated. "You've reached the law office of Sam Winchester, this is Winchester speaking, how may I help you?" There was a smile in that voice, loud enough to be heard from across the Bay.

"Good evening, Mr. Winchester," said Castiel. "This is Castiel Milton of the…" He was interrupted by a knock on his door. "Forgive me, one moment." He moved the receiver from his mouth. "Nancy, would you answer the door, please?"

With a nod, she rose and did so. A burly black man, square jawed, head covered in a black bandana emblazoned with red fire, stood in the doorway. "That's my son," he said a low, threatening voice. Based on prior encounters with Isaac, Castiel knew the man didn't intend to harm him, he merely had the kind of voice that was perennially intimidating.

Castiel put a hand over the phone's mouth piece. "A pleasure to see you, Isaac. Tamara is asleep downstairs."

"She's praying in the nave," Isaac corrected dangerously.

"As you say," Castiel inclined his head. "Alex has been asleep for over an hour."

"Thank you for watching him, Father," said Isaac, gratitude an odd counterpoint to the latent violence inherent to the man. Without another word, he took the handles of the baby carriage and pushed it away, closing the door behind him. Moments later, infant screams could be heard through the thin material. Castiel was unconcerned. Isaac wasn't hurting the boy – he'd never do that – the child had simply awoken to the unpleasant reminder of the extreme distress of teeth forcing their way through his gums.

Castiel removed his hand from the receiver. "My apologies, Mr. Winchester. As I was saying, I'm Castiel—"

"We met at that 'Making Connections' event that the Community Alliance for the Bay Area sponsored, right? You're from a Ministry in the Mission?" Winchester said congenially.

"Yes," Castiel was pleased that the man remembered him. "Though we're actually in the Outer Mission. The Finding God Ministry."

"Right, right." He envied Winchester's easy charisma, the charm so irrepressible that it screamed through a phone line. "How can I help you?"

"One of my parishioners has a legal issue, and I thought it might be in your area of expertise," he began.

"Let's hear it!" said Winchester encouragingly.

"Nancy, would you like to…?" Castiel met her eyes, and she shook her head vigorously. "Very well. Ms. Fitzgerald works at the Excelsior District Police Station, and has uncovered a case of officer corruption." Winchester whistled. "A detective for whom she works has stolen from evidence and falsified reports. There are likely other witnesses, but she knows of none. While she has copies of her own report and can attest to the veracity of her observations, she unfortunately does not have any supporting documentation. I'm aware that it is not the strongest case, but I have known Ms. Fitzgerald for some years and I can speak to her character as absolutely unimpeachable."

"That's tough," murmured Winchester, his tone considering. "Is she willing to speak with me?"

Castiel covered the phone again. "Nancy, he'd like to speak with you. Is that alright?" She hesitated, biting her lip, and then nodded and took the receiver.

"Mr. Winchester?" she said. What followed was an exchange of several minutes, the hum of Winchester's rich voice audible though his words were indistinct from across the table, with Nancy nodding and shaking her head at the phone and making occasional sounds of agreement. "May I bring Father Castiel?" she asked eventually. "Thank you, yes, it would. Would we have to meet in Oakland? Oh, good, good. If it's not too inconvenient for you, a weeknight evening would be ideal. I can't miss work, especially not for this!" She met Castiel's eyes. "6:30 on Tuesday, Father?" He nodded agreement, grabbing his calendar and making a note of the meeting. "Meeting at the Ministry would be wonderful. Thank you so much for your help, Mr. Winchester." She hung up and took a fortifying breath. "Thank you as well, Father." That modest smile was back on her lips, her head tilted so she was looking up at him through her eyelashes.

"I'm here to help," he said with professional distance. "Is there anything else I can do to be of service this evening?" Lowering her eyes, a faint flush of color coming to her cheeks, she shook her head. She rose. Castiel stood as well, walked to the door and holding it for her. "Thank you for the trust you have shown in me, Nancy," he continued as he walked her down the hallway and across the generously-named nave. The Ministry was not configured as a traditional church, it was too small and was built into what was one a storefront on Geneva Avenue. The building had been gut renovated to accommodate the church, the floor between the first and second floor removed to give the main room high ceilings, the windows had been replaced with walls, and the worn wood floor was lined with pews facing a cross, altar and lectern from which Castiel gave his sermons. They entered from a door near the back of the room, which led not only to his office, but also to the bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and the staircase to the basement, which served as a classroom, a meeting room, a donation center, storage space, and a place for those in need to sleep. An abandoned lot out back was now his garden, open to the public, maintained by the only volunteers he'd retained long term, each responsible for their own plots. Home. "Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Of course, Father," she said with a smile, taking his hand in hers. Nancy never missed a Sunday service. "I'll be able to teach bible study, as well."

"That would be wonderful. I'll mention it in my sermon. Take care, Nancy," he said his farewells and saw her through the front door. If no one volunteered, he wasn't able to offer Sunday school, but Nancy was one of several regulars who frequently stepped forward to give instruction to the youth who came to the church.

Nancy left. Looking around, Castiel saw no one sitting in the pews. It was late enough that he should lock up for the evening, so he began his walk-through of the small building, making sure that no one was hiding anywhere. The Ministry was always open, but he was more comfortable if he knew who was present. The small, modest, worn congregation was a far cry from the churches of his youth, immense buildings filled to the brim with people who had paid a premium to show their devotion and hear the words of the supposedly blessed and holy. Seeing the word of God used for profit had always disgusted him. The veneer of sanctity and righteousness that his father maintained did little to obfuscate the truth from any who actually knew him. Yes, much of the money went to charity, and that was excellent. However, much more of the money went to Zachariah's own pockets, or to his friends. Once, Castiel had thought that devotion, until he read the word of God and realized that the "truths" that Zachariah and his fellow Evangelicals preached was a far cry from the red letter.

There was no one in the basement, no one in the garden, no one in his office, no one in the pews. Satisfied, Castiel locked the front doors. A sign out front said in English and Spanish that if he was needed, any time, night or day, and the door was locked, a visitor need only ring the bell to receive aid. Weeknights usually passed uninterrupted. Weekend nights rarely did.

Settling back into the chair in the office, Castiel stared at the blank page of his pad and wondered what to speak on the next morning. Nothing sprang to mind. Growing increasingly frustrated, he finally turned to his single shelf of books and pulled down his well-worn bible. He set the book on its spine on his desk and allowed it to fall open where it will.

 _Romans 15:4. For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that through endurance and through the encouragement of the Scriptures, we might have hope._

Castiel smiled. He could work with that. It was a quote he was particularly fond of, for it didn't imply that every word of the Scriptures was absolute, inviolable truth. Instead, it suggested that the Scriptures were one starting point to study the wisdom of the ancients, one of many potential sources – _whatever_ was written in former days was instructional, not only the Bible. The word of God was a source of perseverance, enlightenment, and inspiration, a font of hope for the hopeless, a source of peace and wisdom for those surrounded by violence and stupidity. Letting his thoughts wander, Castiel began to write.

The walls of the Ministry were thin, his window open against the warmth of an unexpectedly warm early May day, and the sounds of the streets intruded at intervals. Sirens passed, a cacophony of multiple police cars, the distinct wail of an ambulance. Raucous voices reached him, speaking in a mixture of Spanish and English, men loud and aggressive, women shrill and flirtatious, both laughing coarsely. Castiel didn't need to see bottles to know that their way was liberally eased with alcohol.

Well after midnight, distance bangs spoke of Saturday night trouble. Over the winter, things had been fairly peaceful, but with the coming of spring and sun and heat, violence returned, a cycle that, based on Castiel's time in the neighborhood, appeared as inevitable as the changing of the seasons. As a child, he'd have thought those sounds were cars backfiring, but now he recognized the distinctive crack and echo of gunshots. Pausing in editing his sermon, he closed his gritty, fatigued eyes and sent a prayer to Heaven, for peace, for healing, for understanding, and his fervent wish that God would shelter and protect any innocents caught in the crossfire. The shooting ended, to be followed by more distant sirens, more police cars, more ambulances. Sadly, Castiel forced his attention back to his work.

There was nothing he could do.

The hour grew later, and the night grew silent, as Castiel continued to pour over his writing.

A clatter of broken branches pierced through foggy thoughts. Blinking, Castiel lifted his head from his desk. His hand yet negligently clutched his pen, his page was yet before him, but without realizing it, his eyes had slipped shut, his face had sunk to the desktop. A yawn forced through his lips as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. With a loud snap, something in the garden broke, and a muted moan leaked through the open window. Sighing, Castiel rose, stretched, rolled his shoulders to ease out the soreness left by his awkward, unintentional nap. It was likely more teenagers sneaking into the garden to engage in relations. He wished they'd believe him when he explained that if they simply asked, provided no one else was downstairs, they were welcome to use the cots in the basement. Apparently, sneaking into the Ministry garden to have sex was risqué, whereas using the doorbell to ask permission to have sex in the Ministry basement was absolutely taboo. There was a thud and a groan, a deep male voice, familiar but beyond Castiel's ability to place.

Out the door, down the hall, to the large, arched entryway that led outside. Unlocking the door, he stuck his head out. The garden was young, small trees and scrubby shrubs just beginning to take root and thrive. Two apple trees, thick with fragrant blossoms, grew on either side of the brick path that circled the small space, each stone engraved with the names of those who had donated money or time to fund the space. Few of the plants showed much growth yet, some daffodils and crocus' bloomed in clumps and patches, a small forsythia bush in the back corner visible in the darkness due to the pale color of the profusion of yellow blooms coating the branches. The late night air was cool and now that he was outside it was shockingly quiet.

"If you need a place to stay, please come in," Castiel said to the still, quiet night. The meditation garden was enclosed by stone walls as tall as a man. The contractor who donated his time to build them had suggested that Castiel use barbed wire along the tops of the fences to keep intruders out, but Castiel had categorically refused. He'd yet to have an intruder whose intent was violence. Those who climbed into the garden sought refuge, safety, or privacy, not to do harm.

There was no answer, only the whisper of heavy breathing coming from the deep shadows to his left. A cloud passed overhead, reflecting the light of the city, suffusing the garden in deep gray. Dark green caught Castiel's attention, staring eyes in a pale face. For an instant, terror clutched at his throat – _Michael has found me, how, how could he find me?_ – but then reason took over. Only one person in the world knew that Castiel Milton was once Jimmy Novak, and Father Gabriel would never betray him. Wind stirred through the garden, causing branches to brush and leaves to rustle, carrying an earthy smell that Castiel could not place The light brightened.

Dean lay slumped against the stone wall, half-crushing a butterfly bush. His eyes were wide open and sightless, his body lay at an awkward angle that must be uncomfortable, yet he didn't move. His leather jacket – there was that earthy smell again, the jacket the source – hung open, revealing a shirt in a mottled color. His jeans were smudged with dirt and splotched and splattered with stains. One of his arms rested on his stomach, skin filthy with dark mud, the other lay limply beside him.

"Dean?" It was impossible to keep alarm from his voice. Stepping from the path, Castiel skirted new growth, his feet sinking into the damp soil with each step.

There was no answer.

Castiel dropped to his knees beside the unmoving form, set a hand on his shoulder and shook him. "Dean!" With a cough that sprayed Castiel's face with saliva, Dean started, sitting upright, chest thrust up, only to collapse back with an agonized groan. Castiel got a hand behind him to ease him back. "What's the matter?"

"Bet…you weren't…spectin'…to see me…again…" breathed Dean, tone tinged with humor despite the obviously difficulty he had. He squeezed his eyes shut, pained, and Castiel looked on helplessly, unsure what had happened or what he should do. "Eh, Father?" A chuckle dissolved into another fit of coughing. Nervously, Castiel wiped the liquid from his face.

His hand came away with dark smears.

"Blood," Castiel muttered with horror. The mottled darkness covering the front of Dean's shirt took on new, sinister meaning, the damp patches on his jeans hinted at the severity of the wound hidden by the night. "Oh, God! I'll go inside – I'll call an ambulance."

"No!" said Dean with shocking vehemence. Expression pained, he grabbed Castiel's wrist with a powerful grip and struggled to rise again before repressing a whimper into a whine and sinking back. "Shit…no. Can't get arrested. Can't go to jail. Need to…need to…fuck that hurts…"

"Dean—"

"Sorry, Father," the man said, voice growing reedy. "Nowhere else to go."

At a total loss for what to do, Castiel said the only thing he could. "I'll help you."

Pinched agony eased into a gentle smile. "Thank you." A thread of blood oozed from the corner of Dean's mouth, leaked down his chin, caught on stubble, dripped onto his leather jacket as Castiel watched, transfixed and sickened. Tension dissipated from Dean's body and his eyes slipped shut as he settled, unconscious, against the garden wall.

"Fuck," muttered Castiel. "God, lend me strength."

With a sigh, Castiel wrapped Dean's arm around his shoulders and prayed like he'd never pray before that dragging the injured man to Castiel's bed in the Ministry wouldn't kill him.

Just a typical Saturday night at the Finding God Ministry.


End file.
